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University  of  Illinois  Library 

-b  1951 


J&H  0 6 

DEC  24  ! 


'86 


v-<J  J 


L161 — H41 


THE  COTTER’S  SATURDAY  NIGHT. 


DRAWN  BY  F.  A.CHAPMAN.  ENGRAVED  BY  J.FILMER. 


PHILADELPHIA  : 
PORTER  & COATES 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2016  with  funding  from 

University  of  Illinois  Urbana-Champaign  Alternates 


https://archive.org/details/cotterssaturdayn00burn_0 


PUBLISHERS’  PREFACE 


&c ?/ 


a t 


In  once  more  sending  forth  to  the  world  of  happy  homes,  this 
noblest  Poem  of  “ the  greatest  Poet  that  ever  sprang  from  the 
bosom  of  the  people,”  the  Publishers  find  their  occasion  and 
excuse — if  such  could  be  ever  needed — partly  in  the  fact,  that  it 
has  never  before  been  detached  from  the  collected  Works  of  Burns 
to  receive  those  adornments  of  Art  which  have  been  so  bounti- 
fully and  lovingly  bestowed  on  Gray’s  “ Elegy,”  Goldsmith’s 
“Deserted  Village,”  Coleridge’s  “Ancient  Mariner,”  Thomson’s 
“ Seasons,”  and  other  kindred  treasures  of  our  English  verse  ; but 
chiefly  in  the  cordial  enthusiasm  with  which  artist,  engraver, 
printer,  and  binder  have  lent  their  happiest  skill  to  present  it  in 
attire  harmonious  with  its  spiritual  beauty,  and  worthy  of  its 
essential  preciousness. 


Let  not  Ambition  mock  their  useful  toil, 

Their  homely  joys,  and  destiny  obscure; 
■Nor  Grandeur  hear,  with  a disdainful  smile, 
The  short  but  simple  annals  of  the  Poor. 

Gkay. 


All! 


Y loved,  my  honoured,  much-respected 
friend  ! 

No  mercenary  bard  his  homage  pays ; 
With  honest  pride,  I scorn  each  selfish  end  ; 
My  dearest  meed,  a friend’s  esteem  and 
praise : 

To  you  I sing,  in  simple  Scottish  lays, 

The  lowly  train  in  life’s  sequestered  scene  ; 

The  native  feelings  strong,  the  guileless  ways ; 

What  Aiken  in  a cottage  would  have  been ; 
though  his  worth  unknown,  far  happier  there,  I ween  ! 


November  chill  blaws  loud  wi’  angry  sugh ; 

The  shortening  winter-day  is  near  a close ; 

The  miry  beasts  retreating  frae  the  pleugh ; 

The  black’ning  trains  o’  craws  to  their  repose  . 
The  toil-worn  Cotter  frae  his  labour  goes, 

This  night  his  weekly  moil  is  at  an  end, 

Collects  his  spades,  his  mattocks,  and  his  hoes, 
Hoping  the  morn  in  ease  arid  rest  to  spend, 

And  weary,  o’er  the  moor,  his  course  does  hameward  bend. 


Th’  expectant  wee-things,  toddlin,  stacher  through 
To  meet  their  dad,  wi’  flichterin  noise  an’  glee. 


At  length  his  lonely  cot  appears  in  view, 

Beneath  the  shelter  of  an  aged  tree ; 

Th:  expectant  wee-things,  toddlin,  stacher  through 
To  meet  their  dad,  wi’  flicliterin  noise  an’  glee. 
His  wee  bit  ingle,  blinkin  bonnily, 

His  clean  hearth-stane,  his  thriftie  wifie's  smile, 
The  lisping  infant  prattling  on  his  knee, 

Does  a’  his  weary  carking  cares  beguile, 

An’  makes  him  quite  forget  his  labour  an’  his  toil. 


Belyve,  the  elder  bairns  come  drapping  in, 

At  service  out,  amang  the  farmers  roun'  ; 

Some  ca7  the  pleugh,  some  herd,  some  tentie  rin 
A cannie  errand  to  a neebour  town  : 

Their  eldest  hope,  their  Jenny,  woman  grown, 

In  youthfu’  bloom,  love  sparkling  in  her  e’e, 
Comes  hame,  perhaps,  to  show  a braw  new  gown, 
Or  deposit  her  sair-won  penny-fee, 

To  help  her  parents  dear,  if  they  in  hardship  be. 


Wi’  joj  unfeigned,  brothers  and  sisters  meet, 

An’  each  for  other’s  weelfare  kindly  spiers  : 
The  social  hours,  swift- winged,  unnoticed  fleet ; 

Each  tells  the  uncos  that  he  sees  or  hears  ; 

The  parents,  partial,  eye  their  hopeful  years ; 

Anticipation  forward  points  the  view. 

The  mother,  wi’  her  needle  an’  her  shears, 

Gars  auld  claes  look  amaist  as  weel’s  the  new  , 
The  father  mixes  a’  wi’  admonition  due. 


U.  0FMJLU8. 


Their  master’s  an’  their  mistress’s  command, 

The  younkers  a’  are  warned  to  obey  ; 

An’  mind  their  labours  wi’  an  eydent  hand, 

An’  ne’er,  though  out  o’  sight,  to  jauk  or  play  : 

11  An’  oh  ! be  sure  to  fear  the  Lord  alway, 

An’  mind  your  duty,  duly,  morn  an’  night ! 

Lest  in  temptation’s  path  ye  gang  astray, 

Implore  His  counsel  and  assisting  might : 
hey  never  sought  in  vain  that  sought  the  Lord  aright  i” 


But  hark  ! a rap  comes  gently  to  the  door  ; 

Jenny,  wha  kens  the  meaning  o’  the  same, 

Tells  how  a neebour  lad  cam  o’er  the  moor, 

To  do  some  errands,  and  convoy  her  hame. 

The  wily  mother  sees  the  conscious  flame 
Sparkle  in  Jenny’s  e’e,  and  flush  her  cheek  ; 

Wi’  heart-struck  anxious  care,  inquires  his  name, 
While  Jenny  hafflins  is  afraid  to  speak ; 

Weel  pleased  the  mother  hears  it’s  nae  wild,  worthless  rake. 


Wi'  kindly  welcome  Jenny  brings  him  ben  ; 

A strappan  youth  ; he  takes  the  mother’s  eye ; 
Blythe  Jenny  sees  the  visit’s  no  ill  ta’en  ; 

The  father  cracks  of  horses,  pleughs,  and  kye. 

The  youngster's  artless  heart  o’erflows  wi’  joy, 

But  blate  an’  laithfu’.  scarce  can  weel  behave  ; 

The  mother,  wi’  a woman’s  wiles,  can  spy 

What  makes  the  youth  sae  bashfu’  an’  sae  grave  : 
Weel  pleased  to  think  her  bairn’s  inspected  like  the  lave. 


’Tis  when  a youthful,  loving,  modest  pair, 

In  other’s  arms  breathe  out  the  tender  tale, 

Beneath  the  milk-white  thorn  that  scents  the  ev’ning  gale.” 


O happy  love ! where  love  like  this  is  found ! 

0 heart-felt  raptures  ! bliss  beyond  compare  ! 

I’ve  paced  much  this  weary,  mortal  round. 

And  sage  experience  bids  me  this  declare — 

“ If  Heav’n  a draught  of  heav’nly  pleasure  spare, 

One  cordial  in  this  melancholy  vale, 

'Tis  when  a youthful,  loving,  modest  pair, 

In  other’s  arms  breathe  out  the  tender  tale, 

Beneath  the  milk-white  thorn  that  scents  the  ev’ning  gale.” 


Is  there,  in  human  form,  that  bears  a heart — 

A wretch  ! a villain  ! lost  to  love  and  truth  ! 

That  can,  with  studied,  sly,  ensnaring  art, 

Betray  sweet  Jenny’s  unsuspecting  youth  ? 

Curse  on  his  perjured  arts  ! dissembling  smooth ! 

Are  honour,  virtue,  conscience,  all  exiled? 

Is  there  no  pity,  no  relenting  ruth, 

Points  to  the  parents  fondling  o’er  their  child  ? 
Then  paints  the  ruined  maid,  and  their  distraction  wild  ! 


But  now  the  supper  crowns  their  simple  board, 
The  healsome  parritch,  chief  o’  Scotia’s  food  : 
The  soupe  their  only  hawkie  does  afford, 

That  ’ yont  the  hallan  snugly  chows  her  cood ; 
The  dame  brings  forth  in  complimental  mood, 

To  grace  the  lad,  her  weel-hain’d  kebbuck,  fell, 
An’  aft  he’s  prest,  an’  aft  he  ca’s  it  guid ; 

The  frugal  wifie,  garrulous,  will  tell, 

How  ’ twas  a towmond  auld,  sin’  lint  was  i’  the  bell. 


The  cheerfu’  supper  done,  wi’  serious  face, 

They,  round  the  ingle,  form  a circle  wide ; 

The  sire  turns  o’er,  wi’  patriarchal  grace, 

The  big  ha’  Bible,  ance  his  father’s  pride : 

His  bonnet  rev’rently  is  laid  aside, 

His  lyart  haffets  wearing  thin  an’  bare ; 

Those  strains  that  once  did  sweet  in  Zion  glide, 
He  wales  a portion  with  judicious  care  ; 

And  “Let  us  worship  God  !”  he  says,  with  solemn  air. 


They  chant  their  artless  notes  in  simple  guise ; 

They  tune  their  hearts,  by  far  the  noblest  aim : 
Perhaps  Dundee’s  wild  warbling  measures  rise, 

Or  plaintive  Martyrs,  worthy  of  the  name ; 

Or  noble  Elgin  beets  the  heav’nward  flame, 

The  sweetest  far  of  Scotia’s  holy  lays  ; 
Compared  with  these,  Italian  trills  are  tame ; 

The  tickled  ears  no  heart-felt  raptures  raise ; 
Nae  unison  hae  they  with  our  Creator’s  praise. 


The  priest-like  father  reads  the  sacred  page. 


The  priest-like  father  reads  the  sacred  page, 
How  Abram  was  the  friend  of  God  on  high  , 
Or,  Moses  bade  eternal  warfare  wage 
With  Amalek’s  ungracious  progeny ; 

Or  how  the  royal  Bard  did  groaning  lie 

Beneath  the  stroke  of  Heaven’s  avenging  ire , 
Or  Job’s  pathetic  plaint,  and  wailing  cry  ; 

Or  rapt  Isaiah’s  wild,  seraphic  fire  ; 

Or  other  holy  seers  that  tune  the  sacred  lyre. 


Perhaps  the  Christian  volume  is  the  theme. 

How  guiltless  blood  for  guilty  man  was  shed ; 

How  He,  who  bore  in  Heaven  the  second  name, 

Had  not  on  earth  whereon  to  lay  His  head : 

How  His  first  followers  and  servants  sped ; 

The  precepts  sage  they  wrote  to  many  a land : 

How  he,  who  lone  in  Patmos  banished, 

Saw  in  the  sun  a mighty  angel  stand ; 

And  heard  great  Bab’lon’s  doom  pronounced  by  Heaven’s 
command. 


Then  kneeling  down,  to  Heaven’s  Eternal  King, 
The  saint,  the  father,  and  the  husband  prays  : 
Hope  “ springs  exulting  on  triumphant  wing,”  * 
That  thus  they  all  shall  meet  in  future  days  ; 
There  ever  bask  in  uncreated  rays, 

No  more  to  sigh,  or  shed  the  bitter  tear, 
Together  hymning  their  Creator’s  praise, 

In  such  society,  yet  still  more  dear ; 

While  circling  Time  moves  round  in  an  eternal  sphere. 


* Pope’s  Windsor  Forest.  It.  B. 


Compared  with  this,  how  poor  Eeligion’s  pride, 

In  all  the  pomp  of  method,  and  of  art, 

When  men  display  to  congregations  wide 
Devotions  ev’ry  grace,  except  the  heart ! 

The  Power,  incensed,  the  pageant  will  desert, 

The  pompous  strain,  the  sacerdotal  stole  ; 

But  haply,  in  some  cottage  far  apart, 

May  hear,  well  pleased,  the  language  of  the  soul  • 
And  in  His  book  of  life  the  inmates  poor  enroll. 


Then  homeward  all  take  off  their  sev’ral  way ; 

The  youngling  cottagers  retire  to  rest : 

The  parent-pair  their  secret  homage  pay, 

And  proffer  up  to  Heaven  the  warm  request, 
That  He  who  stills  the  raven’s  clam’rous  nest, 
And  decks  the  lily  fair  in  flow’ry  pride, 
Would,  in  the  way  His  wisdom  sees  the  best, 
For  them  and  for  their  little  ones  provide  ; 

But  chiefly,  in  their  hearts  with  grace  divine  preside. 


From  scenes  like  these  old  Scotia’s  grandeur  springs, 
That  makes  her  loved  at  home,  revered  abroad : 
Princes  and  lords  are  but  the  breath  of  kings, 

“ An  honest  man’s  the  noblest  work  of  God 
And  certes,  in  fair  Virtue’s  heav’nly  road, 

The  cottage  leaves  the  palace  far  behind  ; 

What  is  a lordling’s  pomp  ? a cumbrous  load, 
Disguising  oft  the  wretch  of  human  kind, 

Studied  in  arts  of  hell,  in  wickedness  refined  ! 


O Thou  ! who  poured  the  patriotic  tide 

That  streamed  through  Wallace’s  undaunted  heart; 
Who  dared  to  nobly  stem  tyrannic  pride, 

Or  nobly  die,  the  second  glorious  part, 

(The  patriot’s  God,  peculiarly,  Thou  art, 

His  Friend,  Inspirer,  Guardian,  and  Reward  !) 

O never,  never,  Scotia’s  realm  desert ; 

But  still  the  patriot,  and  the  patriot-bard, 

In  bright  succession  raise,  her  ornament  and  guard  ! 


O Scotia  ! my  dear,  my  native  soil  I 

For  whom  my  warmest  wish  to  Heaven  is  sent ! 
Long  may  thy  hardy  sons  of  rustic  toil 

Be  blest  with  health,  and  peace,  and  sweet  content ! 
And,  oh,  may  Heaven  their  simple  lives  prevent 
From  luxury’s  contagion,  weak  and  vile ! 

Then,  howe’er  crowns  and  conViets  be  rent, 

A virtuous  populace  may  rise  the  while, 

And  stand  a wall  of  fire  around  their  much-loved  Isle. 


